Chains of Ice (16 page)

Genny felt as if she were suffering from a fever.

The other members of the team were wrong. John wasn’t like any modern movie star. The gaunt face, the dark tan, the light blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes: they belonged on a castle wall, a mural full of knights and armored horses, of battle depicted so realistically one could hear the clash of swords and smell the blood spilled on the ground. And the heart of the battle would beat around this man, swinging his flaming sword or a mace with menacing accuracy.

No, there was nothing fake about this man, nothing modern, nothing weak.

He was the real thing, and only Genny was acute enough to see the truth. Only Genny was smart enough to be afraid.

Genny glanced back at the monitor where the splendid lynx still forbiddingly glared, and now she knew why the snarling cat seemed familiar.

He reminded Genny of John.

“Have you talked to him yet?” It was her father. Of course.

“Wait a minute.” Using her cell as a flashlight, she fumbled her way into her parka and stumbled down the stairs.

Where to go?

The bathroom had a door. She could go inside and shut it. So she did. Putting her spine against the wall, she sank down on the floor. “Okay, Father. I talked to him.”

“And?”

“He’s different.”

“What did he say about coming to New York?”

“I haven’t asked him.”

“What is to be gained by delay?” Father snapped.

“His trust,” Genny snapped back.

Father said nothing. Perhaps he was taken aback by her attitude. Perhaps he wanted to make her break and ask pardon.

She didn’t know. She didn’t care.

Finally, grudgingly, he said, “All right. I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks. Now I have a question of my own. Where did the legend originate?” Genny listened while her father tried to decide why she wanted to know, how much truth to tell, what could be gained from a lie.

“What legend?” he asked cautiously.

She didn’t snort. She didn’t dare, or he’d pretend their connection was bad and cut her off and not pick up when she called back. And she needed this information. “
The
legend. You know, the one you had me reciting before I was in kindergarten. The legend of the Chosen Ones.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I think it might be important.” God, if he would only just for once answer a freaking question. “Did it originate here? Around Rasputye?”

“No one knows for sure.”

“But the Gypsy Travel Agency has done studies and . . . ?” She patiently drew him out.

“There’s no telling what those bastards are saying now.” He sounded more than bitter. He was bone-spewing vengeful.

“What was the Gypsy Travel Agency saying when you were there? Where did the legend originate?”

“They believed it originated in central or eastern Europe.” Reluctantly he added, “Perhaps on the Russian steppes.”

Exactly as she had suspected. “So if you looked at a map of the border between Asia and Europe, there’s sort of a bull’s-eye and I’m in the center of the target.”

“Not a bull’s-eye. More of a long crack in the earth where things . . . happen. There used to be this theory . . .” He was getting more eccentric every day.

She no longer worried about John being mad. But should she perhaps worry about her father? “Tell me.”

“They think there’s something there, all along the crossroads.”

“Something? What something?”

“If you look at the old stories, the fairy tales, the ones that have come down through eons and ages, there’s a belief that the crossroads is where the new rules don’t apply.”

“The new rules?” What was he talking about? “Are you talking about the rules that have come into being with the advent of civilization?”

“Exactly. The old rules say that the fairies, the demons, the devil himself wait at the crossroads to trick an unwary traveler, to send them off into the woods where they’ll never be seen again. The crossroads is the place where people fight and people die, and their blood soaks into the earth and the earth laps it up as a sacrifice and the old gods are satisfied.” Her father’s voice became dreamy. “People who believe, go to the crossroads to make deals for beauty or love or talent, and come back changed.”

“So deals made at the crossroads are like the deal Faust made with the devil. Sooner or later, their souls are forfeit.”

“I suppose,” he snapped.

“Did you go to the crossroads? Is your soul forfeit?” She didn’t know what made her blurt forth the question except that . . . except he sounded so odd, as if he had visited those crossroads. Clutching the phone hard, she willed him not to hang up.

He didn’t. Instead, he snapped back, “No. Not
my
soul. Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Sorry, Father. Please, tell me.”

“So basically Eurasia should be one continent—geographically, it
is
one continent—but because of the huge cultural divide between Europe and Asia, it’s not. The ancients drew an arbitrary line and said,
This is Europe
and
This is Asia
.”

“I thought mountains and rivers made up the division.”

“There are mountains and rivers all over Europe and Asia. Why that line? And why, along that line, did the old, dark legends take form? Vampires, werewolves, Baba Yaga flying on her broomstick, evil mothers who take children into the woods and leave them . . .”

In business school she’d been trained to think that the way of numbers and facts was the only way. She had deplored their rigidity, but right now, as she faced believing the unbelievable, she realized . . . there was comfort in a closed mind. If she were truly unreceptive, she wouldn’t believe any of it.

But now she was awash in myth, and her mind was opened . . . and she didn’t like it one bit. “So the legend of the Chosen Ones is based on reality and the reality happened here, and the Chosen Ones are drawn back here because of . . . the crossroads? There’s something mystical that draws them? That’s why John is here? Because his misfortune made him feel there was nowhere else in the world he could live?”

“You tell me. You’ve talked to him!” Her father’s voice rose in excitement.

“He’s been very kind.”

“He’s interested in you!”

“Not interested. Not like that.” She was the one interested. She was obsessed. “I’ll let you know when I’ve talked to him about New York. Until then, Father, don’t call me. I’ll call you.” And she hung up.

She looked at the phone.

Never in her life had she imagined she’d have the guts to hang up on her father. Ever since Kevin Valente had lost his job, he’d dominated her life, her thoughts, her ambitions. She’d been afraid of him, afraid he’d walk away as her mother had walked away.

But since she’d arrived in Russia, her soul had blossomed. She sensed the forest; she became a part of its darkness. She had seen the eagles and flown on the wings of wind. She had been sister to the father and mother lynx, guardian to the babies. She had found John; she’d tasted his torment, his desire, his being.

She thought—she hoped—she could make a difference to him. With him.

Maybe this place was magic. Maybe the crossroads did exist here.

A duct connected the bathroom to the closet where Brandon slept, and there he grimaced in agony.

She had been lying to Brandon. Every minute of every day, she had been lying to him.

Oh, sure, he hadn’t
told
her how much he loved her. But he’d made it clear. She had known what he meant. Hadn’t he been the one to warn her about the yeti? Hadn’t he been the one who noticed that bruise on her cheek? The bruise the yeti had given her! Yet still she sneaked around at night like a slut.

What was it with girls? He had money. He had education. He had family. Not that his father ever thought anything Brandon did was worth a damn, but that didn’t matter. When Brandon said he was one of the Lams of San Francisco, he got respect.

He had a great body. He knew that, because he worked it with weights and trainers until he was toned as any of the giants that towered over him at the gym.

Yet whenever he got involved, the girl always betrayed him. And this thing with Genny . . . this was worse than any other time before.

Because he loved Genny. He would always love her. Genny was the light in his dark, miserable, loser of a life.

He would make her pay—

A hand fell on his shoulder.

He jumped, turned, stared.

“What a disappointment Genny has turned out to be. Hasn’t she?” His friend stood there, understanding his pain as no one else could.

“She’s a thief. She stole my glory. She’s a whore. She ignored my love.”

“Yes, but there are ways to deal with thieves and whores.” His friend put an arm around his shoulders and drew him close. “Would you like me to tell you how?”

She had kissed him. Without urging, without a sign of revulsion, she had kissed him.

She didn’t realize what she’d done.

For two years, no human had initiated contact with him. Not to shake his hand, not to slap his back, not to slap his face.

The women he had collected had wanted him for only one thing—for the pleasure he could give them. They had been greedy, and that was fine with him. Because he hadn’t been interested in tenderness. He hadn’t been interested in love. He hadn’t been interested in communication. Lust had been enough. Except for his occasional forays into Rasputye for supplies and to pick up his mail, he had been completely isolated. He had been satisfied to be a wild man. A yeti. He’d worn skins of animals he had killed, eaten berries and nuts, lived in a hut dug into the hill, and figured this was his penance.

Then . . . without any provocation, Genny had touched him.

He hadn’t misread her intention. It hadn’t been a particularly sexual kiss—at least not on her part.

But for him it had been a miracle.

He touched his naked chin.

Now look at him. He’d cleaned himself up and come courting like a boy.

Genny had lured him back to civilization.

It was odd to be so intent on gently wooing this woman. Although she was twenty-four years old with a graduate degree and, apparently, a prick for a father, she seemed innocent and untouched. She wasn’t stupid about people—she seemed to have a good grip on reality—yet she believed in the intrinsic goodness of mankind. In all of his life, he had never believed in goodness, yet everything about her seemed genuine. It was as if she’d been sent for him, to break him of the morass of agony that had trapped his soul.

For the first time since he’d lost Sun Hee, he believed he could survive the agony of living alone in a world that considered him . . . what was it Brandon Lam called him? A freak.

John laughed softly.

Ah, what Brandon didn’t realize was that there were freaks everywhere he looked. This was the
rasputye
, and not just any
rasputye
. This was
the rasputye
, and
the rasputye
attracted freaks. John didn’t always recognize them, but they were here. People like—

Something cold brushed his mind. Something evil slithered through his consciousness.

Lifting his nose, he sniffed the air. Turned his head back and forth. Listened to the trees talk.

Danger stalked the woods.

Brandon was in the woods.

Genny was in danger.

John ran, trusting to his senses to guide him.

He’d provoked the stupid young man, taunting him, then humiliating him.

Would Brandon take his revenge on Genny?

As John got to the edge of the forest outside of the village, he was panting, gasping with effort and anxiety.

Then Genny’s presence reached out and enveloped him.

She was alive. She was unhurt.

She grabbed his arm as if she could see him in the dark. “What’s wrong?”

He embraced her, closed his eyes, and held on to her, gasping with relief.

“I can feel the forest. It’s worried . . .” she said.

Unseen, John nodded. He could feel it, too.

Brandon was out there, doing . . . something . . . wicked.

“Come on.” John followed his senses, and led the way toward the river.

When they were halfway there, he knew where they were going.

The truth hit Genny at the same time, because she whimpered and tried to move more quickly through the darkness under the trees.

But her instincts weren’t as finely honed as his. The brush and roots tripped her.

He caught her once. Twice.

They broke out of the forest above the river and below the observation post on the cliff. The moon glimmered on the water, the sandy bed was pristine white—and across the way, the trees leaned inward almost as if they were racked with the same anxiety that brought John to an abrupt halt. He held Genny back, looked up and down the river, and
listened
.

“This way.” She pulled him back into the trees and along the path that led to the den where Mama Cat lived with her kittens.

“Quietly,” he said on a breath. “Be silent as a bat on the wing.”

“Yes.” Here, close to the river, the quarter moon provided enough light to see. Barely enough, but she no longer stumbled.

They went around the bend, came to the place where the path slid steeply down to the river. The trees parted; John saw Brandon standing across the river by the lynx den, a kitten in one hand, a blue plastic crate tilted up and open beside him.

The kitten cried pitifully.

Genny dropped her backpack and exploded into action.

John tried to stop her, but she jumped six feet onto the riverbed, ran across the stones that spanned the water, as silent as a bat on the wing . . . but in the open, she had no chance.

For Brandon saw her—and pulled a revolver. “Forget it, Genny. You can’t keep these for yourself. I’m going to make a little money, too.”

Genny skidded to a stop, slipped off the stones, splashed ankle-deep into the chilly water. “What money? I haven’t made any money.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Brandon said viciously.

“So I’ve been told,” she said with awful irony.

Behind her, unseen, John smeared dirt on his face.

“Brandon, are you going to shoot me?” she asked.

John noted with approval that she managed to sound hurt and slightly pathetic . . . and he began the methodical process of moving into position.

“I won’t shoot
you
as long as you don’t try and stop
me
.” Brandon sounded tritely pleased, as if he were reading a script. “These kittens are going out on a plane tonight.”

“No!” Genny darted forward out of the water. John froze, lifted his hands, prepared to willfully use the power that two years ago had broken his will . . . and his heart.

But when Brandon clicked the safety off, Genny paused again. “Those kittens are tiny babies. If they’re taken from their mother, they’ll die.”

“They’re weaned.” Brandon was callous and triumphant, and he focused intently on Genny.

Keeping low, John crossed the river upstream, in plain sight—camouflaged by movements that so closely resembled a stalking cat, and by dirt on his skin and clothes.

What was happening here was John’s mistake. John’s fault. He had humiliated Brandon, and when he did, he underestimated the depths of the boy’s wounded pride and malice. John had to make this right.

The second kitten climbed out of the den and yowled as if defending its sibling.

Brandon dropped the baby cat he held into the crate.

“Oh, Brandon. Be careful!” Genny’s anxiety was not feigned. “These are rare creatures and—”

“I know. You love these pussies, don’t you? Love them more than anything in the whole world.” He reached greedily for the second kitten.

Out of the corners of his eyes, John saw a movement, the slow, slinking motion of a lynx. Mama Cat blended with the night. Her eyes gleamed as she stalked Brandon.

Brandon didn’t even realize he was in trouble. He picked up the other kitten, holding it loosely in one hand, the way a drunk would hold a snifter of brandy.

John moved on him from one direction.

Mama Cat moved on him from the other.

By his foot, the crate rattled as the ten-pound kitten fought its captivity.

Genny moved forward by inches, her gaze fixed on Brandon’s face. “I do love them. Don’t you? You came here to find them, to protect them.”

“No, I
didn’t
.” He sounded absolutely scornful. “I came because my father insists I do something useful; and if I had found a lynx, I would have gotten credit. But as it is, I’ll still get attention.”

The crate beside his foot rattled.

“It’s the wrong kind of attention,” Genny said urgently. “There’s no honor in this.”

“Oh, right. You get all the honor, all the glory, because you managed to find the lynx. Gee, Genny, how did you do it?”

John heard the mockery in his voice.

Genny was too focused, too worried for the subtleties. “I was lucky.”

“Lucky?” Brandon’s laughter put John’s teeth on edge, made Mama Cat move a little more quickly. “You weren’t lucky. You were a ringer. You’re a cheat!”

“I didn’t cheat. What do you mean?” Genny was obviously bewildered. “How could I cheat?”

Because he knows about me.
John now realized the source of the trouble that swirled through the forest; somehow Brandon had discovered the truth about the photos, about John, and . . . and he knew how John felt about her. Because John had visited the
traktir
to see her. Because John had cut his hair, changed his clothes, subdued his wild self for her. Because he had courted her without saying a word. Most of all, to protect her, John had carefully, so carefully, ignored her in public.

“You pretended you didn’t know about that creep. That yeti. And all the time you were
sleeping
with him.”

Genny halted. She put out her hands, palms up. “I’m not sleeping with anyone.”

“You lie. John Powell. John Powell!” Brandon’s voice rose, echoing up and down the riverbed. “You know him! You used him to find the cats. You used him like you used me.”

“I never used you.”

“You’ve known him all along!”

The lynx was moving into position, her gaze fixed on Brandon and the kitten he held.

“I have never lied to you.” Genny’s voice sharpened. “But, Brandon, I’m not required to tell you the truth. I owe you nothing.”

John wanted to shout at her.
Error. Genny! Error.

Brandon’s face worked; then he smiled a crooked, maniacal smile. “I don’t owe you anything, either, but I’ll give you something.”

In a careless, graceless motion, he tossed the kitten toward Genny.